about only five
or so
thoughts will go by
till some semblance
of you
conquers my mind

rainbows and nightmares
in your hair
it flows hypnotic
from here to there

oh, darling, how it flows
like rivers within daydreams
pure beauty transposed

I stop and think
on your face a while

there are constellations
in your smile

precious pearls
to further accent
the vivid colors you
represent

you've since floated in
underneath my skin

& I like you there

moments are now shallow
as they go by

pleasure since hollowed
if you're not beside
me

& that's alright

I sense you in the night air

I conjure your closeness
to combat my despair

fervently feverish,
wanting
you there

I'd sleep in the street
if it would earn me a glare

I reach out for your embrace

I will be soothed back into
my longing dream state

your colors now paint
the night around

& soon the sound
of your name

whispered

rattles my brain

& I'm left with only
my longing

I'll yearn for you
just the same

The terms and conditions of loving the unloveable:

Participate at your own risk. The problem with loving a dream is that it is a two player game and you are the only one with dice to roll. 

1 and 5. They will tell you they love you in black and white, with mottled colour on ivory skin.

3 and 2. They will tell you that you are beautiful and then let you go.

6 and 6. Your face met with the devil’s fist. You will give your love to a loveless being and they will say thank you with a few broken bones and muffled excuses in only an emergency. In case of an emergency please dial 4. Please dial 4, please dial 4. They will smoke cigarettes as your shaking hands reach up for their face and they will tell you to clean up the blood in the kitchen, in the kitchen, “get in the kitchen”.

You roll again.

6 and 6. Your face met with the devil’s fist. Your hands bound and blood running down your wrists. Please dial 4, please dial 4. He will change, of course he will.

Roll Again.

6 and 12. A third dice to make the game and he will hurt you again and again and again.

The unloveable.

They are not made for lovers hearts or lovers eyes or the morning kiss of a weary child. They are made to hurt and they are made to bleed through the look in their eyes and the names they call you, through the destruction of skin on skin and the idea that anything pure in life must be a ******* sin.

I am a suggestion
between workings of brain, the solid ridge
of spine ― a curvature
kin to *******, hip, *****.

Almost touchable,
I tender flesh, still, in old acquaintances
who might have been
something more.

To a subtle fingertip
my nap is velvet ― in some strangers
I am a lily’s stem
geisha-cool.

I glow under moons
beneath the wedge-dark, am back door to eyes ―
those hogs of the bone-glint,
of the brink of sharing.

Eased aside, locks
reveal me: curtain raised on my milky
opening night ― or slightly bowed,
offered to the axe.

Mario Petrucci from *love sends itself flowers

closer to the edge
you've never found nakedness
the taste of mirrors
-some turn on the radio-
we need a place full of
not the wrong side of hell
it's years now, it's in vain
to measure the route of light
to the other side of truth

innocent apples have ripened
and you keep excavating time
(love is not enough)

have a taste
there was honesty
in bloom

That circle, realm
of light, made of,
you know,
words crawling,
making gullies
to melt you in,
me, bursting,

see?,

slowly claimed
by a lunar me,
globbing, sobbing,
mourning the me
i forged within you.

(I have to feel this in any language)
to keep the horizon distant in your eager hands
to carefully listen to the rustling of time
to erase the shame from silent kisses
to put your violence in the courage
to be less than anyone have thought/pointed/dreamed
to preserve some hope in between the shoulders
for somebody to lean against
a symmetric desire

what if it's what he wanted?

and isn't it strange?
we all have so many emotions
and later on we don't even remember why we felt a specific way
just that it hurt.

I know that we are flesh and blood;
We're bound terrestrials.
There is not a hint nor thought
In me, celestial.
And yet the final day they found
You were ephemeral,
I raised my eyes towards the skies
And sought the aerials.
I hoped the blessed, holy book
In truth, was literal.
The yearning, needing wanting hole
Was raw and pitiful.
In vain I combed the cobalt spans
For proof reciprocal
Of an eternal, lasting love
From the ethereal.
My opulence in obstinence
Brought truth from empty skies
The swirling air, the ash and dust
Is only where you fly.
There is no golden field of wheat
And barley where we'll meet
There is no paradise where I
Will once more hear you speak.
The last known home where you reside
Exists in no known creed
You live now in the dreams and thoughts.
That bring you back to me.